understood its nature.
“I wish to be taken to a good hotel, where I can remain a day or two, until I have time to communicate with my friends. My being out of money is owing to an inadvertence. I will receive a supply immediately on writing home.”
The man drew his purse from his pocket, and, presenting it, said—
“This is at your service. Take whatever you need.”
Mrs. Lane thanked him, but drew back.
“Only get me into some safe place, until I can write to my friends,” said she, “and you would lay both them and me under the deepest obligations.”
The man arose at this, and stepping into the bar room, desired the bar-keeper to send for a carriage. From a stand near by one was called. When it came to the door, he informed Mrs. Lane of the fact, and asked if she were ready to go.
“Where will you take me?” she asked.
“To the United States Hotel,” replied the man. “You could not be in a safer or better place.”
On hearing this, Mrs. Lane arose without hesitation, and, going from the house, entered the carriage with the man, and was driven away. Drawing her veil over her face, she shrank into a corner of the vehicle, and remained in sad communion with her own thoughts for many minutes. From this state of abstraction, the stopping of the carriage aroused her. The driver left his seat and opened the door, when her companion stepped forth, saying as he did so—
“This is the place,” and offering at the same time his hand.
As Mrs. Lane descended to the street, she glanced with a look of anxious inquiry around her. Already a suspicion that all might not be right was disturbing her mind. Two years before she had been in Philadelphia, and had stayed several days at the United States Hotel. She remembered the appearance of the building and the street, but now she did not recognise a single object. All was strange.
“Is this the United States Hotel?” she asked eagerly.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” was the smiling reply. “We are at the private entrance.”
Her bewildered mind was momentarily deceived by this answer, and she permitted herself to be led into a house, which she soon discovered not to be an hotel. The most dreadful suspicions instantly seized her. So soon as she was shown into a parlour, the man retired. A woman came in shortly afterwards, who, from her appearance, seemed to be the mistress of the house. She spoke kindly to Mrs. Lane, and asked if she would walk up into her room.
“There has been some mistake,” said the poor wanderer, her lips quivering in spite of her efforts to assume a firm exterior.
“Oh, no, none at all,” quickly replied the woman, smiling.
“Yes, yes there is. I am not in the hotel where I wished to go. Why have I been brought here? Where is the man with whom I came?”
“He has gone away; but will return again. In the mean time do not causelessly distress yourself. You are safe from all harm.”
“But I am not where I wished to go,” replied Mrs. Lane. “Will you be kind enough to give me the direction of the United States Hotel, and I will walk there with my child.”
The woman shook her head.
“I could not permit you to go until Mr. Bond returned,” said she. “He brought you here, and will expect to find you when he comes back.”
“I will not remain.” And as she said this in a firm voice, Mrs. Lane arose, and, taking her little girl in her arms, made an attempt to move through the door into the passage. But the woman stepped before her quickly, and in a mild, yet decided way, told her that she could not leave the house.
“Why not?” asked the trembling creature.
“Mr. Bond has placed you in my care, and will expect to find you on his return,” answered the woman.
“Who is Mr. Bond? What right has he to control my movements?”
“Did you not place yourself in his care?” inquired the woman. “I understood him to say that such was the case.”
“He offered to protect me from wrong and insult.”
“And, having undertaken to do so, he feels himself responsible to your friends for your safe return to their hands. I am responsible to him.”
“Deceived! deceived! deceived!” murmured Mrs. Lane, bursting into tears and sinking into a chair, while she hugged her child tightly in her arms, and laid its face against her own.
The woman seemed slightly moved at this exhibition of distress, and stood looking at the quivering frame of the unhappy fugitive, with a slight expression of regret on her face. After Mrs. Lane had grown calm, the woman said to her:
“Is your husband living?”
“He is,” was answered, in a steady voice.
“Where does he reside?” continued the woman.
“In New York,” replied Mrs. Lane.
“What is his name?”
